


Now Panic and Freak Out

by lumateranlibrarian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crack, F/F, Fluff, everybody gets a little screentime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8127016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumateranlibrarian/pseuds/lumateranlibrarian
Summary: An Inquisitor-approved method for wooing one of one's companions.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thievinghippo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/gifts).



Malika Cadash was not unfamiliar with the ideals of romance, nor was she inexperienced in the art of seduction. In certain branches of the Carta, back when she’d been one of the rank and file members, such skills had been necessary acquisitions. She’d also once dated an elf from the Antivan Crows. His answer to everything had been sex, except when it wasn’t, in which case murder was always another viable option. Unfortunately, the current object of Malika’s affections was neither an elf nor an assassin. On top of that, given her recent dedication to the straight and narrow path (of morality, to be clear, not heterosexuality), she felt that at this point neither bribery nor deception would be appropriate in her attempts to woo Inquisition Scout-Lieutenant Lace Harding.

“Cullen!” she shouted in a panic, throwing open the door to his tower office. It ricocheted off the wall with a bang.

The Commander, who had been half-bent over his desk inspecting the topmost sheet of a frankly enormous stack of reports, startled violently. An inkwell, into which he’d been trying to dip a quill without looking, crashed to the floor with a crack and a splatter.

“Inquisitor!” he said, instantly snapping to attention. His posture was stern and defensive, eyes scanning her stout, muscled frame for injuries or other signs of distress. “What is it?”

“I need your help.”

Now, Cullen was a dedicated man, and he felt that he owed Malika Cadash not only his life, but a fair degree of his sanity as well. “I am at your disposal, Inquisitor,” he vowed. Seeing no wounds or indications of assassins in the hold, he relaxed slightly. “What’s wrong?”

Malika took a deep breath. “How do I date a Ferelden?”

“What?”

“How do I date a Ferelden?” Malika repeated desperately.

Mentally, Cullen reviewed her words. He blinked, and did so a second time. Yes. She  _ had _ said that.

“I am… flattered,” he stammered. “Unfortunately, I find that I cannot offer any more than—”

“What?” Malika interrupted, equally flabbergasted. They stared at each other in uncomprehending confusion until Malika reached a conclusion and gave a spluttering laugh. “Oh! Yeah, no. Not you. No offense, Commander, but you’re not really my type.”

“Oh,” was all Cullen found it in himself to reply. “My, um. Apologies. For assuming.”

Malika giggled, more at herself than at him. “Don’t worry about it. I… might have overreacted a bit,” she admitted, and went to close the door she had so enthusiastically opened. “Let me start over.”

She cleared her throat, and perched herself regally on the corner of his desk. She would have looked a great deal more imposing if her feet hadn’t been dangling half a meter above the floor. “Commander,” she instructed sternly. “I find myself experiencing a problem of great import, to which I’ve determined your advice would go far in lessening any potential fallout.”

Cullen couldn’t hold back a snort. She spoke in the same tone of voice she used while passing judgement on the Inquisition’s prisoners, or dealing with Orlesians. Embarrassed flush receding, he made a vague gesture for her to continue. He knelt on the floor to inspect the remains of the shattered inkwell. Surely he had a rag in this blasted room somewhere.

“I am but a humble ex-convict from the Free Marches,” Malika proclaimed. Cullen raised a skeptical eyebrow, and when Malika noticed, she helpfully demonstrated her middle finger without pausing. “But Scout Lace Harding is a proud dwarven archer of great skill and—”

_ “Ha!” _

With a victorious crow, another door across the office was thrown open. Malika wobbled from where she sat, and threw out a hand to catch her balance. Cullen flinched, and hit his head against the corner of the desk. Standing in the doorway was another archer of great skill, but also of great annoyance. 

“Ooh, careful there, Prickles,” Sera warned, a grin splitting her freckled face. Her eyes danced over Malika, and her pointed ears twitched. “You an’ Lacey, now? That what I hear? ‘Bout time, innit?”

“Sera,” Malika warned, but she couldn’t hide a pleased and slightly abashed smile. Sera cackled, and like that she was gone the way she’d come, whooping gleefully at the top of her lungs.

In the immediate silence of the elf’s absence, Cullen looked up at the Inquisitor solemnly. “All of Skyhold will know within the hour.”

Malika laughed helplessly. “That’s optimistic. I give it fifteen minutes, tops. Never underestimate a Red Jenny with motivation.”

 

Gordon Blackwall ran his thumb over the last engraved streak on the griffon’s wing. He moved slowly and deliberately, searching for imperfections in the wood by sense of feel. The surface was cool under his fingertips, and slightly raw from the recent application of a chisel, but a thorough sanding followed by a polish would make the wood shine. It would be perfect...

“Oi! Blackwall!”

Sera’s holler was in the alarmingly near vicinity, and Blackwall quickly stepped back. He placed both hands beneath the rocking toy and shifted it far from the workbench’s edge before turning to meet the young lady with an amused smirk. As she bounded into the barn, her nose wrinkled at the scent of horse and hay.

“Sera,” he greeted. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Sera stuck out her tongue. “Piss off with the fancy formal shite, yeah?” she told him. “I got a thing.”

“A thing?” he wondered, and crossed his arms. “What sort of thing?”

Sera grinned wickedly. “Our Quizzie’s got a catch!”

“A catch of what? Quails? Mountain hares?” Blackwall pretended to misunderstand.

Sera squinted at him before punching him in the arm with a tiny, stinging fist. “Pissing arsetwat. I’m talking  _ Mallie  _ and  _ Lacey. _ You know, redhead with the bow and the birds?”

“You’re describing Sister Leliana.”

Sera scrunched up her face as she considered that relationship. “Mmm, no, not going there. Not bad, though.”

“Malika and Scout Harding,” Blackwall mused. He scratched at his beard thoughtfully “That’s not a bad match. They get on well together.”

“ ‘S what I said!” Sera agreed vehemently. “Gotta tell everyone.”

“No bees,” Blackwall said firmly. “Whatever it involves, Sera, no bees.”

Sera stuck out her tongue again and made a crude gesture. “Oooh, sod  _ off.” _

Blackwall was going to take that as an acquiescence.

 

 

In the Herald’s Rest, Lace Harding braced herself.

“You’re thinking about this backwards,” Krem promised, patting her on the shoulder. “Think about what she’ll like, not what people usually do. It’s got to be memorable, but you don’t want to overwhelm her.” On her other side, Grim said little, but offered Lace a consoling grunt, and swapped his full mug of ale with her empty one. Gratefully, she pulled it towards her.

“Look,” the Iron Bull said pragmatically from the other side of the table. “Everyone likes flowers… good food… a little dancing. Take her for a walk on the battlements, say some shit about the stars and her eyes. And when the moment’s right, you bring her back to your room and you tear her clothes right—”

Lace gave a rather uncharacteristic snarl and slapped both hands flat on the tabletop, managing to rattle the tankards resting on the table. “This is our  _ first date.” _

The Iron Bull gave her an impressed look, and then an unimpressed look. “So take her dragon hunting.”

Lace groaned.

The Bull shrugged. “It works on me.”

 

The Inquisitor paced furiously before Dorian’s little nook. He steepled his fingers as she ranted and waved her arms. He was nothing if not a patient and understanding man. She would soon exhaust herself and tell him what the matter was.

“...  _ what _ he told me?”

Dorian nodded sagely, having a feeling she would continue regardless of whether or not he answered.

“Mabari!” she shrieked. “Mabari and  _ farming. _ How am I supposed to talk about those for an entire night? I don’t know enough to fill a thimble about either,” she muttered. “Useless.”

With that, Malika let out an explosive huff of breath, and leaned heavily against the banister across the way, crossing her arms tightly. “She’s just… Dorian, how can I possibly be good enough for her?”

Dorian stiffened. “I beg your pardon?” he asked incredulously.

“She’s brave and gorgeous and clever…” Malika explained weakly. “Lace is…”

Dorian snapped shut his current attempt at light reading. Surely she hadn’t just said what he thought she’d said. “Malika. That is utter nonsense.”

“She is!” the dwarf defended. “She’s bloody wonderful!”

“No, no, no,” Dorian retorted, rolling his eyes. “I meant the other bit, the  _ I can’t possibly be good enough to catch the eye of the object of my desires _ bit. You are the Grand Inquisitor of Southern Thedas! You have climbed your way from one of the lowest dregs of society, the common criminal and drug runner, to become one of the most powerful women in Ferelden and Orlais combined. You have, in no particular order, faced down a dragon, survived an explosion, facilitated an admittedly tremulous detente between the ruling powers of Orlais, warded off numerous assassination attempts, and on top of it all, found and returned that  _ impossible _ druffalo to Farmer What’s-His-Face.”

The Inquisitor was blushing by the time he finished, and she ran the back of her hand over her mouth, trying and failing to hide a flattered smile. He raised an expectant eyebrow, and she bit her lower lip.

“Point taken,” she admitted after a moment. “But what about—”

“And that, Inquisitor, is why you have made the right decision in coming to me,” Dorian stated grandly, speaking over her. “I am an expert in the art of wooing women.”         

Malika stared at him for a moment, and then began to giggle, growing in intensity until she seemed barely able to catch her breath. “You? Wooing women?”

Dorian crossed his arms with no small amount of petulance. “Well, it can’t be  _ so _ different from wooing a man.”

Malika was clearly trying not to sigh, and Dorian appreciated that. He considered for a moment longer, and then clapped his hands together. The noise rang around the open floor of the library. “I have it! Poetry!”

“Huh?”

“It’s ideal,” Dorian gushed. “Who doesn’t like being told they’re perfect in every way? I believe we have a book of verse by Antoinette duCarre, a very well-known Orlesian poet, who—”

“That is enough!” growled a deep and surprisingly lupine voice from the lower floor of the tower, and Dorian and Malika flinched in synchrony. They exchanged fearful looks. Dorian made several furtive gestures, and Malika stuck her tongue out at him before cautiously leaning out over the bannister of the library to speak with the resident elvhen apostate below.

“... Solas?”

“Inquisitor. You cannot possibly be taking romantic advice from that… incompetent,” Solas protested. His expression was both enraged and grievously insulted.

“Incompetent!” Dorian cried, and strode over to the bannister. “And when was the last time you offered anyone romantic counsel beyond  _ knock them out and take them to the Fade, it’s lovely there?” _

Solas pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. The top of his gleaming head reddened, and absently, Dorian wondered whether or not an egg could be fried on such a surface.

“Inquisitor, are you aware that Ferelden was invaded and occupied by Orlais only forty years ago?”

_ … Ah. _

“If you intend on pursuing Scout-Lieutenant Harding, perhaps literature from a source  _ other _ than a nation well-remembered for culturally oppressing her home and her people would be better suited.”

Malika whirled on Dorian, who could already feel a stricken expression becoming more and more evident on his own features. She opened and closed her mouth furiously several times before slapping one hand to her forehead.

“I’m going to die alone,” she muttered.

 

Lace believed in measured risk-taking, and so the next person on her list was Skyhold’s resident spirit… boy… thing. From what she could tell, Cole had no concept of lying. While he spoke almost entirely in riddles—and therein lay the risk, as there was no telling whether or not she’d be able to understand him—he only wanted to be helpful.

“I do!” a disembodied, cheerful voice agreed.

The top floor of the tavern was dark, but there was a tall, lanky figure sitting on a barrel in the corner, his legs kicking back and forth in a childlike swing. “Cole!” she greeted. “Whatcha got for me?”

He smiled at her, and his corner of the darkened loft actually seemed to get a little bit lighter. “Heartbeats and stepping feet, like fighting but soft. The tambourine reminds her of the crickets from home.” Cole leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, falling into an expectant silence. His eyes were wide and bright.

Lace rubbed her hands together absently as she parsed out the meaning. Stepping feet… tambourine… heart _ beats… _

“Oh!” she laughed. “That’s it!”

Cole hummed happily.

 

Malika surveyed the array before her with fierce determination, and cracked her knuckles. A breeze ruffled her hair, and she swept the strands from her eyes with a quick flick of her head. “I’m ready.”

“Let us begin,” Cassandra said, and nodded grimly. “A red rose symbolizes true, passionate love, while pink and yellow represent the lighter emotions of admiration and friendship,” she recited, with the same intensity she reserved for drawing up the siege plans for storming Adamant fortress. “Daisies, for innocence. Lilacs, for first love. Sunflowers for adoration.”

Malika pointed at an interesting-looking flower, a set of minuscule white blossoms forming a circular, table-like surface, with a long, spindly stem. “What’s that one? I’ve seen it growing roadside in the Hinterlands.”

“It is Queen Madrigal’s Lace,” Cassandra explained after a pause. “I believe it is used to suggest daintiness. I would not recommend—”

“It’s perfect!” Malika interrupted gleefully. “Oh, she’ll love it so much. She’ll hate it, but she’ll love it!”

Cassandra cleared her throat. “I… must admit, Inquisitor, I find several flaws in that plan.”

“Such as?”

“Earwigs come to mind, but there are other reasons,” the Seeker answered flatly, and Malika shrugged.

“We can just shake them really hard,” she explained happily. She proceeded to demonstrate, plucking a single flower and shaking it vigorously over the ground. “See? No earwigs.”

_ “The Inquisitor was hilarious, _ they’ll say one day,” Cassandra muttered. “You wait.”

 

Vivienne struck an elegant, poised figure as she stood serenely on her balcony. She held a glass of dark red wine in one hand. 

All of Skyhold was holding their breath. 

Rather silly, in retrospect, but a bit of lightheartedness between moments of war was necessary for survival and sanity alike. That, and Vivienne took a strange amusement in watching their Inquisitor become flustered. From experience on the field, Vivienne knew that Malika Cadash was crude, unflappable, and unimpressed in the face of danger (though that, she reasoned, was as much of a mask as anything). When truly rattled, the Inquisitor withdrew behind a wall of semi-panicked formality.

Thanks to the elvhen archer’s gossip network, every soul in Skyhold knew that both the Inquisitor and Scout-Lieutenant Harding had been planning fervently all day. Vivienne, from her balcony, had a prime spot to watch both the grand staircase and the door to the Herald’s Rest, should the two dwarves decide to meet at either.

There was a stomp of feet up the stairs behind her, a distinct, lumbering gait she recognized. Vivienne allowed herself a smirk, but did not turn.

“Master Tethras,” she greeted, even before the dwarf could speak. “Come to see history in the making?”

A rustle of paper and the clink of an inkwell was indication enough that she was correct, and when he moved to stand beside her with his usual swagger, she noted that he carried one of Josephine’s flatboards. “Romantic subplots are the spice of life. And look at you, Iron Lady,” he grinned. “Best seat in the whole damn house.”

Vivienne raised a doubtful eyebrow. “For my purposes, yes,” she allowed. “I would have thought to find  _ you _ down there in the courtyard, to better document their every word.”

“Nah,” Tethras said, scratching at his chest thoughtfully. “They’re not gonna get much privacy tonight. And I like the idea of a distant angle for the scene.”

There was a softness to his tone that surprised Vivienne. It was not that she thought him incapable of such compassion—quite the opposite, in fact—but it surprised her nonetheless that the man would reveal it in her presence. Rather than comment on it, she nodded firmly, and offered him a glass of wine.

_ “Aggregio pavali,” _ Varric read slowly from the label. His accent was pleasantly passable, Vivienne noted approvingly. The dwarf’s lips twisted wryly, as if recalling a distant memory.

“It’s from Dorian’s private stash,” Vivienne clarified. “The one he thinks I am unaware of.”

Varric grinned. “Stolen goods? That’s even better.”

“Borrowed, dear. Permanently borrowed.”

 

 

In the shadow of the sign of the Herald’s Rest, Malika bit the inside of her cheek, took a deep breath, prayed to her Ancestors, and offered the bouquet to Lace.

Instantly, the other dwarf’s cheeks flared an adorable red. Lace accepted the flowers with both hands. The body of the bouquet was pink roses and chrysanthemums, ringed with Queen Madrigal’s lace around the edge. Lace began to stammer, a pleased and slightly silly smile springing to her lips.

“Mal, this is really, really nice! I love it, it’s so pretty and... _ wait.” _

Malika watched breathlessly as the woman trailed off mid-sentence. Lace carefully brushed one fingertip around the rim of one of the white, flat flowers. She glanced up, eyes narrowed, at Malika’s carefully-crafted innocent expression. Then she squinted down at the flowers in her hands. 

The corner of her lips twitched. “You’re hilarious, Mal,” she deadpanned, and Malika, utterly relieved, burst out into a fit of giggles as Lace shifted to cradle the flowers in the crook of one elbow.

“I thought you’d like tha—” Malika began to say, but she was interrupted. Lace fisted one hand in the front of her tunic, pulled her forward, and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her mouth. Malika squeaked. She wrapped her arms around Lace and dipped her low, deepening the kiss. Above them, hanging halfway out of her second-story window, Sera whooped.

 

 

As Inquisitor Cadash and Scout-Lieutenant Lace Harding danced to the sounds of tambourines and mandolins on the floor of the Herald’s Rest, the Iron Bull punched Grim on the shoulder.

“What’d I say, Grim?” he growled in satisfaction. “What’d I say?” Instead of waiting for an answer, he lifted his tankard and took a long, long drink. When he reemerged, he was slightly cross-eyed and muttering cheerfully about redheads.

Grim smirked, and said little.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was as much fun to read as it was to write! Huge shoutout to my betas for this fic, Unavoidedcrisis and LadyKatana. Thank you so, so much for your help!


End file.
